The donkey follows me to the ford.
I point at the river’s grey colour and tell him
how it ran orange back in the steelworks days
and trout and limestone turned rusty.
I show him how, even now, you can scrape a stone
and still disturb red oxide.
The donkey remains silent, eyeing the depth of water.
I tell him about the spring that used to bubble
in the lane, clear and cool.
Still he stands. I can’t fathom his thoughts so,
hitching up my skirt, I cross the ford.
Behind me a clatter, then a splashing. I call out
The river is mostly recycled rain but he continues
upstream. And though he’s told me nothing, his absence
is a cold draught, cold as the incessant water.
.
“Robbie Burton never does what I expect in ‘Someone Else’s Street’, nor goes where I’m anticipating. And her work seems completely different from anybody else’s.” Charlotte Gann
Robbie Burton 